Brothers
by Whilom
Summary: Songfic. Eragon watches the sun set and thinks of his relationship with Murtagh. Nonslash.


**Disclaimer:** Paolini's, not mine. Song is by Bryan Adams.

* * *

It had been days, weeks, all leading to a month perhaps. Either way, it was too short a time to forget. Even if he could have, Eragon didn't want to. He didn't want to forget Murtagh, only wanted to remember they were friends. He sat with his arms resting on his bent legs, staring off into the sunset as he had grown accustomed to doing ever since Saphira had hatched from her egg. He had so much to think on, and the sun seemed big enough to wipe away his fears for the time and leave him with only his thoughts.

Right now he was not afraid. He probably had much to fear—Murtagh was strong—but he was not afraid yet. He wanted to remember. He didn't even need to search far into the past for his memories; they were present in his dreams every night. Last night he had dreamed of riding a horse, Snowfire, beside Murtagh on a green prairie, the sky arching above them nearly white with the sun's brightness. Then they were lifted together into the clouds, riding Glaedr, Oromis' dragon. He could remember the clenched ball of happiness he had felt in his stomach when he turned to look behind him at Murtagh and saw that they looked alike, like mirror images of each other. He was not himself, and Murtagh was lighter and more carefree than he had ever known Murtagh to be, and he felt a heavy pressure on his chest of suppressed fear that he had never known; but they were the same, each bearing the other's burdens.

Eragon had to look back farther to remember, to harden himself, Murtagh when they first met. The old distrust welled up. He could still see the way Murtagh's pale eyes had bored into him, making him believe his story, pegging him to the ground. He had _wanted_ to believe him. Murtagh had been dropped to the ground by Saphira but was laughing, that deep throaty laugh that Eragon had only heard once, and Eragon remembered how his hair had matched exactly the blackened ground. And he had thought, then, that this boy who was older than him needed as much help as the forest needed after a fire. He knew so much now that so much more meaning was put into that picture of Murtagh laughing on the blackened ground. His brother could still laugh after all that had been done to him, after how much he resembled the ruined forest, he could still laugh.

_I had a dream - of the wide open prairie  
I had a dream - of the pale morning sky  
I had a dream - that we flew on golden wings  
And we were the same - just the same - you and I _

Eragon focused on the sun's impossible brightness as it sank, red-tinged, to the horizon. When he looked away, all he saw was the sun—and then Murtagh's face. He remembered so vividly…

"If you think I'm going to keep you here, I'm not."

Murtagh moved forward with one hand stretched out and Eragon jumped back, holding his sword up to warn his brother. _Brother?_ he remembered thinking. _My brother?_ Murtagh's mouth parted as though he wanted to say something, but then he closed it like a bitter taste had invaded his mouth. His voice was quiet and Eragon knew that when Murtagh spoke quietly he wanted you to listen. "I want you know—Eragon, that I—we will always be—" He straightened, holding his head high, his back rigid. Eragon knew that it was a reaction to the disbelief in his own eyes. He was destroying them, destroying their relationship with the words he wasn't saying, but at the moment Eragon hadn't cared. Now he could reflect upon it and regret what he hadn't done. "I am what I am, brother. And you are what you are, whether you like it or not. Just remember that I might not have chosen this path." The hardness around Murtagh's jaw eased a little. "And remember that I am your brother—we're blood."

Eragon shook his head to dispel the look of intense sorrow that filled Murtagh's face when he said those words. Murtagh lived on under the same sun that he did, but they were as separated as they had been before they met, brothers or not.

_  
Follow your heart - little child of the west wind  
Follow the voice - that's calling you home  
Follow your dreams - but always, remember me  
I am your brother - under the sun _

The sun was like a bloody disc suspended just above the black horizon, tangent to the earth. Swiftly, nearly too fast to see, every exchange, every glance between them returned to Eragon in an instant. Murtagh, cautious to a fault; Murtagh's face when he so desperately wanted Eragon to believe him; Murtagh, when he had ripped off his tunic to reveal his horrible secret, his scar; Murtagh, when he had seen Zar'roc, his own rightful inheritance, and had told its terrible history to Eragon. _"Here I find you bearing one of the Forsworn's bloody swords!"_ he had cried vehemently, shoving it in its sheath and giving it back to Eragon as though it burned him. He had seen the blood on that sword, Eragon knew, his own blood staining the red steel still more crimson. Probably had seen it in a haze after his father had cut open his back with it while only a child. He remembered the white scar that crossed Murtagh's back like a birthmark that cursed the bearer. Eragon did not have to bear the agonies caused by the scar any longer—but Murtagh. Eragon's jaw set in a grim line. Murtagh still bore the hurts made against him, still carried the heavy, heavy weight of fear. That fear had caused him to wake at night in a cold sweat. Eragon had become accustomed to Murtagh moving idly around the camp as the moon hovered above. Murtagh had tossed aside his worries as though they were trivial enough to be someone else's. Eragon saw himself very strongly in Murtagh: their common desires to be self-reliant, their common starvation for someone to care, their strong bond formed after all the hardships they had faced. And now this—Murtagh a Rider, what Eragon had secretly always hoped would happen, but enslaved once more by choices he did not make.

_  
We are like birds of a feather  
We are two hearts joined together  
We will be forever as one  
My brother under the sun _

A slight breeze ruffled Eragon's hair, drawing him still deeper into his thoughts. A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the way the wind whistled in his ears the first time, the first _real_ time, he had ridden Saphira. After riding a dragon, riding a horse seemed so mundane. Yet he and Murtagh had found ways to amuse themselves while traversing the mountains with Saphira scouting the way to the Varden. They had once come upon a herd of bison and they had raced alongside it, whooping and laughing until their horses were too tired to run. Eragon desperately tried to push away the memories that followed but he somehow wanted to see them. He saw so clearly himself turning to Murtagh and promising that he would help protect him if he would go to the Varden with them. Murtagh had agreed, unwillingly, and his fear as hidden to most who would look. But Eragon knew, by then, the ways in which Murtagh's fears manifested themselves—the tightness of his jaw, the way he drew himself up as though to challenge, the rigidness of his movements. The same signs had been present the day he had rejected Murtagh, the day he learned how strong their ties really were. The grief, the pain, the betrayal—all fought for prominence in Murtagh's eyes.

"If you do this, Murtagh, you'll be lost forever," he had pleaded and Murtagh had listened despite the punishment he would have to endure at Galbatorix's hands. This Murtagh was nearly broken, was nearly a shell, but Eragon's ignorant words had done nothing to help his brother.

"You and I, we are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can't deny it," Murtagh had whispered closely, almost bidding Eragon to remember their journey together.

Eragon winced, drawing a shuddering breath. His next words must have cut Murtagh deeply, far deeper than their father's sword had.

"You're wrong. We're nothing alike. I don't have a scar on my back anymore."

Murtagh's face had become hard and cold, like a lifeless statue. Only now could Eragon see that the last statement had cost him his brother. Their scars, the most visible reminder of the ties that bound them together, had brought them nearer to each other. Eragon had looked up to Murtagh once he understood the pain his scar caused when he sparred. Murtagh had borne his scar far longer than Eragon had but he never complained. He had accepted it despite his desperate longing for it to disappear. And then this, the younger brother who had always had everything easier, who had been accepted into a new family, who had only just learned of his terrible heritage, Eragon was the one to be released from his bonds—and he scuffed up dirt into the face of Murtagh, the brother who had encouraged him in every way.

"If I have become my father, then I will have my father's blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all our enemies. It is only right, then, that I should also wield the sword _Misery_. Misery and Thorn, a fit match," Murtagh's hollow voice had intoned, leaving Eragon free and returning as an unwilling servant to take his punishment from his master.

Eragon had let him go. He had abandoned his brother when Murtagh needed him most. He might go now and beg forgiveness, beg to be reconciled, beg for Galbatorix to take him as well. It would make no difference. It was as though Murtagh had been teetering on the brink between something great and something terrible. He was beyond reach now; his salvation if it was to come would have to be from himself. Eragon knew that the act of saving oneself was enough to change anybody. Murtagh was strong, and if he accepted Eragon's rejection as final, he would be a powerful adversary. His brother, a great enemy.

Eragon rose from where he had been sitting. The sun was far beneath the horizon and a chill wind blew over the bleak landscape. It didn't matter that by Murtagh's hand, willing or unwilling, many would die. They were brothers, they were blood, they were the same. His actions were Eragon's own. Eragon may have betrayed his promise, but he was determined to never do so again. He would do anything to make Murtagh his brother again.

_  
Wherever you hear - the wind in the canyon  
Wherever you see - the buffalo run  
Wherever you go - I'll be there beside you  
Cause you are my brother - my brother under the sun_


End file.
